


In the Back of My Mind and the Core of My Heart

by HidingFromTheSpotlight



Series: This is Not the Road to Love [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Incomplete, M/M, Progress Halted, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:52:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HidingFromTheSpotlight/pseuds/HidingFromTheSpotlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to You Fascinate Me.<br/>John is struggling to move on after Sherlock forgets him entirely. He wonders if, just maybe, they're not meant to be. Destiny disagrees. Like a bad penny, Sherlock Holmes is back in his life, and John couldn't be happier, though Sherlock is puzzled by the man's abrupt acceptance of him. But together, maybe they'll find a way to be whole again.</p><p>Officially on the 'Probably Never Going to be Finished' shelf. I'm sorry, but I can't find the will to write it anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like A Bad Penny

John sat at the table, looking about the restaurant disinterestedly. It was twelve-fifteen. Whoever this “perfect candidate” was, they weren’t punctual. With every passing minute he grew more impatient and annoyed. One of the waiters seemed to think he had been stood up, and was continually looking from him to his cane with increasing pity. John thought darkly that if the man offered him one more cushion, one more free drink, he was going to punch him square in the nose. He checked his watch again, and told himself sternly that he’d give him five more minutes. Subconsciously he hoped he wouldn’t show up. The idea of sharing a flat with someone was making him feel nauseous. What if they thought he was some kind of invalid and treated him like a helpless child? What if they tried to set him up with their sister? _What if they liked karaoke_? John shivered slightly, pushing away the memory of Sergeant Hughes wailing ‘Learn to Fly’ into a hairbrush. He hated the sadness of that memory, his last memory of Hughes before he was blown apart by an IUD. His hand shook and he balled it into a fist in his lap. That’s it, he was going to leave. Screw this stupid flatmate business. “Leaving already, Dr Watson?” a smooth voice asked.

John’s head snapped up to look the man in the eyes, feeling a lump in his throat. “Um,” he managed, struggling to find something to say.

“Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I heard you were looking for a flatmate,” Sherlock said, sitting opposite to John.

“Oh.” John felt his heart sinking. Of course. “You know my name?”

“Yes. My brother heard that you were looking for a flatmate, and decided to set this meeting up on my behalf. So, shall we?” Sherlock ignored the menu, even as a waiter came rushing over.

“May I take your-”

“No.”

The waiter frowned and turned to John. “Sir?”

“A hamburger,” John answered, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “So… Mr Holmes.”

“Call me Sherlock, please.”

“Sherlock. Er, have you looked at any places so far?” John asked, looking down at the table.

“One. An acquaintance of mine offered to give me a slight discount, though I’ll still need a roommate for it to be… advantageous,” Sherlock said. “How about you?”

“I- I’d be happy to go with your one.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked. “That was considerably easy.”

“I’d rather avoid conflict,” John muttered. “Is there anything I need to know about you?”

“I play my violin when I’m thinking, which is always, and I sometimes go days without speaking.”

John repressed a smirk. If Sherlock was going to start listing his worst qualities, they could be here for a while. “Really? Anything else?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

John looked up, a smile on his lips. “That’s all?”

“Did you expect me to be some form of slovenly layabout with an endless list of flaws?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned, though his eyes twinkled with withheld amusement. “Afghanistan or Iraq, if you don’t mind?”

“Afghanistan,” John replied calmly. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re not surprised.”

“Should I be?”

Sherlock frowned, leaning closer. “You’re a recently returned soldier. You suffered a traumatic wound that ended your military career. Your therapist says you have a psychosomatic limp stemming from your PTSD; she’s right. You have a bad relationship with your brother, hence why you’ve refused his offer to stay with him,” Sherlock rattled off.

John smiled widely. It felt good to one-up the genius occasionally. And he’d made the same mistake as last time. It was nostalgic, if only a little tragic. It seemed such a long time ago that the man had slid into his booth and slowly made him fall in love. And then he’d gotten hit by a taxi while John was nearly dying in the desert. He needed to ask himself if this was a good idea. Obviously Sherlock didn’t remember him, but there was always a possibility that he might. Being away from him hurt, but would being near him be worse? If John was around him, wouldn’t it prompt him to recover those memories? Or would it torment him? Could he stand to watch Sherlock struggle with his mind? If Sherlock asked him, could he answer honestly? Would Sherlock even believe him? But despite that, here they were. Together again, talking about being flatmates. That had to be some kind of sign, right? “Are you finished?” he said, nonchalantly sipping his water.

“Most people are irritated by that,” Sherlock said.

“I’m not most people,” John replied. He nodded to the waiter who placed his order in front of him, biting into a chip. “Though I do think your little trick is impressive.”

“Little trick?”

“Mmm, you should show me more of it sometime,” John said.

Sherlock didn’t move. He seemed surprised at John’s attitude. And he seemed unsure of whether John was flirting with him or not. “I’ve thought of something else I should tell you.”

“Yes?”

“I’m married to my work. I am flattered by your interest but I have to warn you it won’t lead anywhere,” Sherlock said stonily.

“I’m not interested. I will admit one thing, though.”

“And what’s that?”

“You fascinate me.” John pushed his plate away, putting down enough money to pay for his meal. He got to his feet, and smiled down at Sherlock. “Whenever you want me to look at that flat with you, your brother has my number.”


	2. 221B Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to survey Baker Street and is once again caught up in the thrill of Sherlock's world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell this is roughly following the canon, but it'll diverge soon-ish. I'm doing my best not to make it a complete cut and paste though.

The cab jerked to a stop, and John climbed out awkwardly, passing the cabbie some cash. He waved away the change, too impatient to wait for the man to clumsily count it out. The taxi drove away just as John heard a familiar voice. “Oh good, you made it,” Sherlock called as he crossed the busy road.

John held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. “Sh- Mr Holmes,” he greeted.

“Call me Sherlock,” the detective replied. He jumped up the small stairs and knocked smartly on the door, rocking on his heels. The door opened almost immediately, an older woman appearing in the doorway. She smiled, pulling Sherlock into a tight hug. “Sherlock, it’s good to see you!”

“Mrs Hudson, this is Dr John Watson,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the doctor. He slipped past Mrs Hudson, into the hallway, and made his way up the stairs two at a time. John nodded to Mrs Hudson, noting the way her eyes lingered on the cane, and slowly made his way up the stairs. He hated stairs; they were the worst thing for someone with a bad leg. He reached the top, breathing heavily. Sherlock held the door open for him, a hint of nerves creeping into his eyes. John couldn’t help but smile at that. He looked around at the interior, taking in its cluttered, messy appearance. _Sherlock must have already moved in_ , he thought to himself.

Sherlock cleared his throat, standing behind an armchair. “What do you think?”

“It’s nice. Very… cosy. A bit cluttered though.”

“Oh, uh, yes. I, uh, only just moved in so I haven’t had much chance to organise everything and my sock index has suffered for it,” Sherlock babbled, hurriedly moving stacks of paper and boxes of unidentifiable contents out of the way.

John sat in a now debris-free armchair and watched the flustered detective fuss with the placement of his books. His eyes swept across the mantelpiece, stopping dead on a leering skull. He coughed, gaining Sherlock’s attention, and pointed at it with his cane. “Unique choice of decoration, isn’t it?”

“He’s a friend. I mean- I _say_ friend but I-” Sherlock said hurriedly.

John chuckled, startling the man. It seemed Sherlock desperately wanted to impress him, as well as do his best not to drive him away. It was actually kind of cute. “Are you going to introduce us, then?” John smiled.

“Er… I never really named him. I just talk to him from time to time,” Sherlock explained, his face a mask of composure even as his hand twitched.

“Call him Billy,” John suggested. “Or Louis.”

Sherlock stared at him, his expression a mixture of amusement, confusion, and relief. “You’re not… frightened?”

“I went to medical school, Sherlock. I’ve seen _a lot_ of skulls.” John turned his gaze to the tower of newspapers still resting on the table and picked up the most recent. He glanced at the headlines, looking for anything about Afghanistan. Sherlock moved towards the window, snatching up pillows and blankets as he went. “So, do you have any insight on this ‘serial killer’ the papers are raging about?” John asked, turning the page.

“It’s not a serial killer,” Sherlock replied absentmindedly.

“Is that a yes?”

“Ooh, those murders are horrible, aren’t they?” Mrs Hudson said, bustling into the room. “Three people just vanished without a trace. Not a single body has been found and the police are at their wits end.”

“They never had any to begin with,” Sherlock muttered.

“Just imagine, three people completely gone!”

“Four,” Sherlock said. “There’s been a fourth.”

The sound of the front door flying open reached them, followed by heavy footsteps up the stairs. A man burst into the flat, looking straight at Sherlock. “Sherlock-”

“What’s changed?”

“You know how they never leave anything behind? This one left a note. Will you come?”

“Who’s working the scene?”

“Anderson.”

“No, he won’t work with me.”

“He’s _not_ your assistant,” the man said tiredly.

“I _need_ an assistant.”

“Will you come?”

Sherlock sighed, turning away. “Not in a police car. I’ll follow in a cab.”

The man nodded, disappearing out the door. John looked from the door to Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. “Important business?”

Sherlock leapt up, pulling on his coat and scarf. He clumsily shoved a note pad and pen into his pockets. “Mrs Hudson, I’ll be out late. Might need some food.”

“I’m not your housekeeper,” Mrs Hudson responded.

“Something cold will do. John, make yourself comfortable,” Sherlock said, running out of the room.

John set aside the newspaper, looking around the disorganised flat. Mrs Hudson cleared a small space on the table and set down a cup of tea. “Here you are. So, how long have the two of you been together? It can’t have been long or Sherlock would have mentioned something before now.”

John, who had chosen that moment to take a sip of his tea, choked. “Wh- What makes you- say such a thing?”

“Oh no, it’s okay. I’m a very accepting person, I promise,” Mrs Hudson said earnestly.

“We- We’re not together. Not like that. We’ve only just met,” John told her, still coughing.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I just thought… Well, the way you two interact, it seemed very familiar.”

“It’s- it’s fine. Really. Don’t worry.”

“Well, if you need anything else, I’m right downstairs.” She left the room, and silence fell. John wondered whether he was expected to sleep here for the night, or if he was just to let himself out and make his own way home. The sudden dismissal stung a bit, but it was to be expected of the genius. Still, John wished they could have talked more. It was nice.

“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock said, leaning against the doorway and scaring the absolute hell out of John. “An army doctor, yes?”

John struggled to his feet, nodding. “Yes.”

“A good one?”

John thought back to those months in the desert, putting people back together while bombs rained down only a few feet away. Not once had his hand slipped. “A great one,” John said.

“You’ve seen a lot of… violent deaths? Brutal injuries?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head slightly.

“Yes. So many; too many for one lifetime.”

“Do you want to see a few more?” Sherlock purred. Well, at least that’s how John interpreted it.

There was something seductive in Sherlock’s tone that crawled up and down John’s spine and wrapped itself around his throat. Pushing aside his somewhat concerning lust for danger and mayhem, John brought his emotions under control. He let out a small shuddering breath, looking Sherlock in his gorgeous and mesmerizing eyes. “God yes.”


	3. To Trap a Wolf and Fend Off a Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Sherlock's "arch-enemy" and proves to Sherlock that he isn't as simple-minded as he looks.

John walked slowly, deep in thought. There had been nothing left behind except the woman’s shoes, and a word scratched into the wooden floor. Not a lot to go on, but for Sherlock it seemed to be enough. He had surmised that the victim was a woman, and that she had painstakingly scratched the word with her nails. And that the word, even if it was incomplete, was Rachel. An idea had then occurred to him and he had raced off without explanation, leaving John to make his own way home. He wasn’t surprised. Sherlock was very obsessive over things that interested him. But it was still very annoying all the same. A ringing phone broke through John’s concentration, and he looked towards its source. A phone booth. With a sigh, he held the receiver to his ear, expecting someone that had called the wrong number. What he got instead was a veiled threat and instructions to get into a car that was waiting at the curb; the voice niggled at John’s mind, though he brushed it off. A woman was inside, fiddling with a phone. She seemed vaguely familiar to John, but he couldn’t quite place her. Any attempt at conversation with her was met with one-word responses and vacant smiles. When they arrived at a warehouse, John barely twitched. Briefly he wondered if he had ever crossed paths with some sort of Mafioso, but then he reminded himself that that sort of thing was reserved for television. A much more likely thought was that this was to do with the military. He had met quite a few agents and soldiers who saw themselves as the next James Bond. And it wasn’t above them to kidnap people and drag them off for a chat.

“Hello, Doctor Watson,” a man greeted, leaning on an umbrella. From what John could see and hear, this was no lowly military agent. He was dressed in a tailored suit, and an air of importance hung around him like smog. Apparently the government wanted to have a talk with little-old wounded ex-soldier John Watson.

“Y’know, if this is to present me with a medal or something, you could have just used a courier service. Or, I don’t know, phoned me?” John said sarcastically, looking around. “On my _phone_.” He shook the aforementioned device for effect.

“This isn’t for an award.”

“Oh? And here you had me all excited that the government was acknowledging my… what was it they said? ‘ _Valiant sacrifice in the line of duty_ ’?” John levelled the man with a glare. “Why am I here?”

“Would you like to take a seat?” the man offered, moving forward a few paces.

John remained standing, staring at the man with boredom etched across his face. “Or I could just go home. There are plenty of seats there.”

The man’s lips thinned in displeasure and he pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket. “You’re therapist thinks your psychosomatic limp comes from the trauma of war. That you were under stress, that you couldn’t _handle_ the pressure. She thinks you shake because you are afraid. You should fire her.”

John arched an eyebrow at him. “Really? What makes you say that?”

“Let me see your hand,” the man commanded, walking closer until there was only an arm’s length between them.

“I’d be happy to show you a finger,” John offered, forcing a smile.

“Now, now, Doctor Watson. No need to be hostile,” he tutted. He gripped John by the wrist, bringing his hand up to the light. “You’re under stress right now, and yet you’re hand is completely still. You don’t fear the war, you miss it.”

“Your point?”

“Is that what drew you to Sherlock Holmes? Or was the connection more _personal_?”

“What are you implying?” John said, his eyes narrowed.

“Nothing. It’s just, you met two days ago, and you’re already looking at a flat together. 221b Baker Street, yes? You’re relationship is progressing rather quickly, don’t you think?”

“Our relationship is as flatmates. I’m moving in with him for the sake of convenience and affordability,” John ground out.

“Really? There’s no… attachment? You feel no emotions for him, even after all that time you spent together?” the man said coldly.

John straightened up, his hand curling into a fist. “How do you-”

“I make it my business to know about anyone who has dealings with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Who are you?” John demanded.

“An interested party. I suppose he would consider me the closest thing he has to a friend: an enemy. He might even say an archenemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

“Well thank God you’re above all of that,” John snapped.

“Have I upset you? I apologise, that was not my intention.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want to make an offer that you will find very attractive. In exchange for a handsome sum, I-”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard my request.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to spy, or steal, or whatever it is you want me to do. I don’t care what you offer me,” John told him.

“You’re very loyal very quickly, Doctor. Anthea will take you wherever you wish. Good day.”

John stood still for a moment, watching the man leave. As far as he could remember, Sherlock had never mentioned an enemy. At least, not one with the funds and status to merrily abduct people off the street without fear of prosecution. Maybe this enemy was unknown to Sherlock, hanging back in the shadows, waiting to make his move. His mobile pinged as a message was received. Apparently Sherlock needed him for a reason he refused to specify. Rolling his eyes, John made his way to the car, eying Anthea with suspicion. It didn’t strike him as unlikely that she might kill him and dump his body in a sewer to cover up her boss’ tracks. Then again, she seemed more interested in her phone than anything else, so perhaps he was overreacting.

 

* * *

 

John stepped into the flat, feeling the gun cradled at his back. He crossed to the window to peer down, seeing the tail end of the car disappear out of sight. Turning he found Sherlock watching him from the sofa, sprawled across it so nonchalantly he might have been a cat in another life. John waited expectantly, staring back evenly. After five minutes passed without a word, John spoke up. “What did you want then? You said it was important.”

“I did?” Sherlock blinked. Screwing his eyes closed, his hand worked his temple. “I did. It was… It was… Ah, yes. May I borrow your phone?”

“What.”

“Your phone,” Sherlock repeated, stretching out his hand. “May I borrow it?”

“You have a phone,” John said flatly.

“Keen observation, John. Not exactly on my level but I’m sure you’ll get there before the end of the century,” Sherlock snarked, sitting up. “My number is on my website. He might have it.”

John rolled his eyes, throwing his phone to Sherlock. “Who’s he?”

“Don’t know, hopefully this will tell us.” Sherlock jumped up, pulling a violently pink case from behind the armchair and propping it against the coffee table.

“I never imagined you as a fan of pink,” John said, sitting down in the armchair closest to the door.

“Funny. It isn’t mine, it’s-”

“The victim’s.”

Sherlock stared at John for a fraction of a second, his expressions shifting like waves in a storm. Finally he settled on an impressed smirk. “Very good, John. It’s good to know you can keep up.”

“So I assume something at the crime scene lead you to this. Her shoes maybe?” John guessed, remembering the shoes the exact same shade of this case. “Clara would have killed to have a pair like that.”

“Yes, how is your brother’s ex-wife? You were… _fond_ of her, weren’t you?” Sherlock asked, and John couldn’t help but grin at the pout on the detective’s face.

“Not as fond as Harry is,” John said. “And they’re not divorced yet, just having a trial separation.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock glanced away, still frowning. “And it was the shoes, partly. I also found specks of nail polish in the floor. Flamingo Flaunt, or something like it; I’d have to check my nail polish catalogue to be sure. But her nails matched her shoes, and a woman who colour-coordinates like that would have at least had a handbag in the same shade. Took some digging, but I found the case and an umbrella in a skip two blocks away.”

“Impressive. That’s quite a leap,” John remarked, running his eyes over the case.

“Thank you. Anyway, even if she hadn’t colour-coordinated the way she did, those shoes still stand out in a crowd,” Sherlock explained, throwing his phone over to John. “Apparently there’s an online competition based in London concerning the most photos taken with interesting strangers.”

John looked down at the screen. The picture was a full body shot of two teenagers on either side of a glamorous-looking woman. Her hair was a little windswept and her smile slightly strained, but the colour of her coat was unmistakeable. “Is there a name with it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It was all about not knowing their identity. I’ve sent it on to Lestrade, though, so they might be able to do something with it.”

“What about this tag?” John questioned, lifting it up to the light.

“It’s been soaked through. I could only just make out the email and mobile number,” Sherlock replied.

“There’s no phone here.”

“So where could it be, John?” Sherlock asked, looking at John with watchful eyes. Evidently, he already knew the answer and was waiting to see if John could get there too.

“It wasn’t at the crime scene. You would have mentioned it if you had found it in the skip,” John said, chewing his lip. “So… it’s either on the woman, or with her killer.”

“Exactly.”

“But how would she have got it on him?”

“What makes you say it’s a him?”

“Well, the case and umbrella were dumped pretty quickly. People wouldn’t question a woman lugging those around, but a man might be more memorable. He wouldn’t have wanted to draw too much attention to himself, so he threw them in the nearest skip he could find.”

“Why not an ordinary bin?”

“Too small. The case wouldn’t have fit properly in anything more than a half empty bin, and with trash day tomorrow, it’s unlikely he’d have found one with enough room.”

Sherlock grinned. “Nicely done, Doctor Watson. Perhaps I’ll make you my official assistant. At the very least you have more observational skills than most.”

John shrugged, taking his phone back from Sherlock. He paused looking down at it suspiciously. “Wait, so you texted that number, which is either with a condition-unknown victim or a killer? Brilliant.”

Sherlock appeared not to hear, turning his attention away to the window. “Why did it take you so long to get here? The crime scene isn’t that far away.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I met a friend of yours,” John told him dryly.

“A friend?”

“Well, he called himself your ‘archenemy’ but that might just be him.”

“Oh.”

“By his pomposity, I’d say government.”

“Ah, I know who you’re talking about.” Sherlock glanced down at the phone in John’s hand as it began to blast a pop song Harry had taken a liking to. “Don’t answer that,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I need to see something.” The song cut off before the chorus, lying silent. Sherlock stared at it a moment longer, before smirking in satisfaction. He nodded, meeting John’s eyes. “We have our answer; the abductor has her phone.”

“Abductor? Not a killer?” John frowned.

“No. See, I don’t think he’s killing them. This man isn’t afraid to show off. He leaves behind their shoes, and then posts to a message board where to find them. Why not leave a body too?”

“Maybe he’s trying to be mysterious? He wouldn’t be half as frightening if people knew how he was killing, or what the connection was between his victims.”

“He doesn’t have a specific type of victim. Judging by the shoes he’s taken two males and this fourth victim makes it two females as well. The sneakers were well worn, scuffed, the type of shoes you’d see on a young man. The other man wore hand-stitched Italian leather. That means money. The first woman wore practical flats in muted tones, likely someone who is practical in day-to-day life. This fourth one wore flashy clothing and colour-coordinated her luggage, by the shade of pink I’d say media or entertainment industries. There’s no reason for these people to have a connection. If he was a serial killer, he’d be more rigid. They have patterns, obsessions. This one doesn’t seem concerned.”

“So a spree?”

“Possibly. The first two were slow, as if he were just testing it out. He’s speeding up, getting more confident,” Sherlock said.

“And we just texted him and made him think he might have screwed up.”

Sherlock got to his feet. “Send another message: Can we meet at 22 Northumberland Street in half an hour? I think you have my suitcase.”

“Northumberland Street?”

“You know it?”

“Um, it sounds familiar. How do you know it?”

“According to my brother, I helped put away the previous owner for child pornography distribution, among other things,” Sherlock said, pulling on his coat. “Have you sent the message yet?”

“Yeah, yeah, wait a second.” John clumsily tapped out the message and sent it off. Looking up, he considered Sherlock’s previous statement. “You don’t remember putting the guy away?”

“I don’t remember a lot of things,” Sherlock replied.

“Tell me about it,” John muttered, getting up. “So are we going together or are you going to pull your Batman card and work alone?”

Sherlock eyed him for a moment before shrugging. “I do think best out loud, and Billy only draws attention when I take him out.”

“You named him Billy,” John smirked. Sherlock remained quiet, holding the door open. Together they made their way downstairs, quiet as mice so as not to bother Mrs Hudson, and gently shut the door behind them.


	4. The Last Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crime solving, John is obviously still in love with Sherlock, and things don't go as planned.

The candlelight illuminated Sherlock’s face in a way that made him look more ethereal than usual. John tried to busy himself with the meal in front of him, but it was difficult to keep from staring like a man first seeing the sky. Sherlock was ignorant of John’s infatuation, watching the address across the road without even blinking. Angelo reappeared with the promised candle and two glasses of wine. John wondered momentarily what he could be planning. “There we go. More romantic,” the man grinned, walking off before John could protest.

“Don’t mind him. He tried to set me up with his daughter, so I told him I was gay. Now he’s hell-bent on finding me a ‘nice man to look after me’. Honestly ever since he found out about-” Sherlock’s mouth clicked shut and he turned away.

“About what?”

“There was an accident, a few months ago. It left me in hospital for a while,” Sherlock answered reluctantly. “Angelo was puzzled when I didn’t remember him after he got out of jail, so I had to explain what had happened. He’s just as bad as Mrs Hudson.”

“It’s nice that you have people that care about you,” John smiled.

“Do you think so?”

John nodded. “It must have worried quite a few people, this accident of yours.”

Sherlock kept quiet, turning back to the window. He stiffened. “John.”

John turned his head ever so slightly, pretending to be peering at a wall decoration. At 22 Northumberland Street, a taxi was idling. “Do you think it could be him?” John whispered, barely moving his lips.

“It has to be someone,” Sherlock replied. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk.” John grabbed his coat and hurried after Sherlock. Just as they burst out of the restaurant, the taxi sped off. Without a thought, Sherlock gave chase. John felt the breath leave his chest as the man was sideswiped by a car. When the detective merely rolled off the hood and kept going, his heart settled back into its usual place but its beating was still off kilter. That seemed to be something Sherlock was good at doing.

 

* * *

 

John accepted the cane from Angelo with amused confusion, glancing back at Sherlock. He bid farewell to the man, heading upstairs. Sherlock had slumped into his armchair, paying no mind to the belligerent Detective standing over him. John only caught the tail end of the rant, but he assumed it had something to do with the Pink Lady’s suitcase. Lestrade took a seat on the sofa and glared at Sherlock. “Is there anything else you’ve neglected to tell me?” he demanded.

“I forgot, so what?” Sherlock shrugged. “I’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“Yeah, but did you forget, or ‘ _forget_ ’, Sherlock?”

“It’s not his fault. We got caught up in setting a trap for the, uh, kidnapper and chased his cab through London,” John said, settling into what he now possessively referred to as ‘his’ armchair despite only sitting in it once before.

“What.” Lestrade’s head whipped round to stare at John.

“It was an honest mistake. I’m sure Sherlock’s willing to hand the case over seeing as he’s done with it anyway,” John continued calmly. “Right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowned, sinking back into his chair. “Fine.”

Lestrade blinked. He glanced from John to Sherlock and shook his head, deciding not to press the matter. “Right. Thanks. The reason that I’m here is we found her; our Lady in Pink.”

Sherlock moved to his feet in a single, fluid movement. “She doesn’t remember anything, does she?”

“No. She’s at the hospital; they found her wandering a tube station. She had nothing on her except for a piece of paper telling her to run.”

“Interesting.”

“How long before you told me she wasn’t dead?”

“It was only a theory.”

“So, are you going to come down to the hospital? Do your scanning thing?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine. John and I will follow you in a cab. John?”

“Coming.” John briefly considered leaving his cane behind. Still, one miracle didn’t mean he was cured. Better safe than sorry, really. Sherlock’s mouth thinned as he glanced at the walking stick, but remained quiet.

“Why don’t I just drive you? It’ll be quicker,” Lestrade complained as he descended the stairs.

 

* * *

 

A hospital again. John was beginning to hate them, which was unfortunate consider his chosen profession and hobby. He followed Sherlock and Lestrade down the hallway, watching doctors and nurses and underpaid medical staff bustle and bump their way through busy schedules. Patients were shunted from room to room to elevator to room and back again with an uneven kind of efficiency. The Lady in Pink’s room was plain apart from a watercolour hung on the wall. She was sitting up, staring at a talk show dribbling out of the TV. When they walked in, she looked up. “Oh. Hello. Do I know you?” she asked.

“Ah, no. I’m Detective Lestrade. This is Sherlock Holmes; he’s a consultant,” Lestrade explained. John had slipped over to the end of the bed, picking up her medical chart and perusing it like a paperback.

Sherlock approached the woman’s side, keen eyes flitting about her person. She flinched, drawing the blankets up to her chest. Sherlock barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “Can I see the clothes she was wearing and any other personal effects?” he asked Lestrade.

Lestrade produces them in seconds and Sherlock wastes no time in tearing away the plastic wrapping. He lays it out on the wheelie tray, running his hands over the bright pink fabric. Lestrade watches him intently. John pulls out the notepad and pen Sherlock insisted he carried just as the man turned to look at him. “Ready?” John queried, holding the items at the ready.

Sherlock hid his smile by bending down to sniff at the material. He turned away, sliding the jewellery out into his hand. “Unhappy marriage,” he murmured to John.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said quietly. He shot a quick look at the woman sitting up in the bed.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t care if he finds out I’m a stark raving psychopath. I just want to know who I am.” She nodded to Sherlock, spurring him on, and waited. Sherlock turned back, continuing his work. When he was finished, Lestrade stepped out of the room to call HQ. John finished off his notes and got to his feet. His wrist was snagged by a hand with chipped Flamingo Flaunt nail polish. “Please? Can I-” She gestured to the notepad.

“Yeah, sure.” John ripped the page out of the notepad and passed it to her. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, exiting the room. John followed him, smiling reassuringly as he left, though the woman didn’t see it. Lestrade hung up as they approached. “Anything useful?”

“The note she left, it must mean something,” Sherlock murmured.

“It does. Missing Persons called. Her name is Jennifer Wilson, and she had a daughter named Rachel.”

“Had.”

“Stillborn. Fifteen years ago.” Lestrade’s voice had settled into hard professionalism. There was no softness to it. Only facts delivered as bluntly as he could manage.

“That can’t be it. Why would she bother?”

“Think of her daughter in a moment where she might be dying? I wonder.”

“She didn’t just think of her. She _carved her name_ into a wooden floor _with her nails_. It would have hurt. There has to be a reason. It can’t just be sentiment,” Sherlock said.

“The killer has her phone,” John murmured, eyes furrowed. There was something, some distant memory, that was deep in the back of his mind. “But he wouldn’t have taken it; they can be tracked by-” That was it. Harry excitedly telling him about an app that could find her phone if she accidentally dropped it somewhere. That was the memory.

“They can be tracked,” Sherlock repeated, his eyes widening. He took off, forcing John and Lestrade to chase him. Lestrade was trying to convince Sherlock to let him call HQ first, but Sherlock wasn’t listening. He could only see another piece of the puzzle, and sing the praises of Jennifer Wilson.

 

* * *

 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. John squeezed his eyes shut, wanting desperately to wake up. This wasn’t happening. But, of course, it was. He could feel Sherlock next to him, vibrating with energy and excitement and danger. The man didn’t seem to mind the fact that they’d been kidnapped by an insane cab driver. The only thing that was keeping John from tackling the cabbie was Sherlock’s quiet assurances that this was all according to plan. It wasn’t, but John was willing to pretend it was. So, he watched the cabbie with narrowed eyes as he blathered on about how he and Sherlock were one and the same. It was close enough to a supervillain monologue that John couldn’t take him seriously. He probably should – his life might depend on it – but the absurdity of the situation only made him wonder if this as all a very bad dream. Hence the aforementioned desperate opening and shutting of eyes. They rolled to a stop, the cabbie opening the door with a leer. “Last stop, gentlemen,” he said.

“What makes you think we’re going to follow you? There are two of us,” John pointed out. The cabbie inclined his head and slipped his hand into his pocket. A black grip could be seen for the small moment before he pushed it back. An alarm in the back of John’s mind rang. ‘ _Observe, John. What aren’t you seeing? What_ are _you seeing?_ ’ He shook his head, glancing at Sherlock. The cabbie beckoned with a crooked finger and the detective followed like a lamb to the slaughter, stopping only to make sure John was by his side.


	5. A Very Bad Cabbie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cabbie's reign of terror is put to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's so short but it is very hard to motivate myself. I really need to plot this out but I keep putting it off. Sorry!

The cabbie was leering at them from across the table. He’d taunted Sherlock for a few minutes, bragging about how smart he is and how Sherlock is not. John had tuned him out, focusing instead on the cogs turning in his mind. He felt slow, dulled, and out of time with the rest of the world. It was frustrating him to no end. _Something_ was bothering him. He needed to think. ‘ _Come on, John! If the army had known how stupid you were-_ ’ Wait. That was it.

Sherlock leant closer to John, though he was still staring at the cabbie. “This is all _very_ interesting,” he said sarcastically, “but I think I’ve heard enough. John, why don’t you call Lestrade and tell him we’ve caught the killer.”

“Have you forgotten about this?” the cabbie sneered, pulling the gun from his pocket.

John raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you really expect that to fool anyone? You talk about having done your research, and yet you seemed to have missed the fact that _I was a soldier_.”

Sherlock grinned smugly as the blood drained from the cabbie’s face. In a fluid movement that seemed to break several laws of physics, he had detached John’s pistol from his waistband and had aimed it squarely at the cabbie’s nose. “Perhaps you should study this one for a few minutes?” he suggested.

“He didn’t tell me about the _other_ one,” the cabbie said through gritted teeth, staring at the barrel with nearly crossed eyes.

“He?” John queried, removing his phone from his pocket.

The cabbie stayed quiet, glaring at the two of them. Sherlock twitched, leaning forwards. “Oh, so there’s a partner? Or are you someone’s lackey? I should have known.”

“I’m not a lackey!” The cabbie’s cheeks were red and his teeth were bared. The gun pointed at him seemed to be the only thing keeping him in place. “I’ll have you know, I came up with this all by myself.”

“Oh, the method, I’m sure. But why would a simple man like you start drugging people? Where would you get something that could wipe out someone’s memories? And I highly doubt you could make it yourself, which brings us back to the _why_?” The cabbie opened his mouth to make an angry retort, but Sherlock quieted him with a wave of the gun. “No. Shut up. It’s my turn now.”

“Er, Sherlock. You shouldn’t wave-” John began quietly, but Sherlock ignored him and the warning died halfway out of his mouth.

Sherlock leaned forward. “You’re a dead man walking, aren’t you? So, what is it? Head, heart, both?”

“Aneurism.” The cabbie tapped the back of his head. He seemed to have deflated, leaning on the table with both arms. “Could go at any time.”

“Yes, you could. So, your wife didn’t want the children to watch their father die. And you hate her for that, but you still love your children. Love them enough to kill?” Sherlock paused, staring at the cabbie without seeing him. “Oh. That’s it, then. Did _he_ threaten them? No… Some other incentive?”

“He payed me fifty-grand per person. To an account for my children.”

“Huh. Is he taking applications? I could use a retirement fund,” John mused quietly.

“I wouldn’t take him up on it, John. I have a feeling employees don’t last very long,” Sherlock replied. He passed the gun to John and seized the two bottles on the table. He held them up to the light, his eyes flicking between them. Throwing one back onto the table, he turned to the cabbie. “This one. Am I right?”

“You’ll have to try it and see,” the elderly man scorned.

“Sherlock-”

“Go on. I’ll take the other one,” he continued, his hand moving slowly over the table. “I won’t cheat, I promise.”

Sherlock glanced down, considering the bottle in his hand. His grip tightened around it. Before he could make an idiot out of himself, John snatched the pill from him. He tucked it into his pocket, glaring at Sherlock. “Police should be here at any moment. Do me a favour and don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m a genius!”

“That’s what he said,” John jerked his hand towards the cabbie, “and look how it turned out for him.”

“I am nothing like him.”

John shook his head. “No, of course not. I’m hoping you aren’t crazy enough to go on a rampage and attack innocent civilians.”

“Civilians?”

“People.” The blare of police sirens filled the room and John let his head fall back in relief. “Thank god.”

Sherlock sighed. “Too bad. I could have gotten information from him.”

“I’m sure if you ask very, very nicely, Lestrade might tell you,” John said sarcastically. He listened as the sound of running feet appeared in the hallway. The cabbie hadn’t even made a token effort to get away. It didn’t sit well in John’s stomach. The door opened and a troupe of police officers, Lestrade and Donovan in the lead, marched in.

It happened in a split second. For a moment, everything slowed down. John was hyperaware of every little movement, every sound. Glass cracked. Something small sped into the room, its trajectory clear. It missed John by millimetres. The cabbie’s eyes were closed, his body slumped back in its seat. Blood trickled from the hole in his forehead, across his eyelids and nose. John swung around, tracking the bullet path back. His eyes met the other man’s dead on. There was no doubt. No fear. No mercy. He dived, pulling Sherlock down as the second shot was fired. The police scrambled, shouting orders. John’s breathing was rapid as he fumbled to turn Sherlock over.

“Are you all right?” he demanded. When there was no response, he shook the man by his shoulders, harder than necessary. “Are you all right?”

“I’m- I’m fine,” Sherlock stammered, his eyes wide. He was staring at John, less frightened and more confused.

“Sherlock? You right?” Lestrade asked.

“I’m fine! Why is everyone so concerned about me?” Sherlock snapped, getting to his feet. “The gunman?”

“Gone. No one saw him… except for your friend there,” Lestrade replied. He held out his hand, helping John up. “Nice save, there. Great reflexes. Where’d you learn that?”

“Military,” John grunted.

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Uh, blue eyes, blond. Tall. He had- scars on his face. Shrapnel scars, I think. I- I didn’t get that good a look,” John said distractedly. Screams were rising out of his mind, shouts and death on dark wings. Bombs were going off nearby, people yelling in pain. ‘ _Medic! John!_ ’ Bullets racing over the land both ways, finding stone and sand and flesh. Pain blossomed in his shoulder like a deadly flower, its thorns hooking into John’s skin.

“Are you all right?” Lestrade asked. He reached out to put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Go- Go get some fresh air.”

John nodded mutely. He walked jerkily, somewhere between a soldier’s march and a coward’s run. He didn’t limp, though. He kept going until the noises of the police had faded, their lights a mere twinkle behind him. Control was slow coming, but he won it back, leaning against a wall for support. The screaming died down, slinking back into the darkness to wait. It nearly rose again when a hand slapped down over his mouth. Another pressed a very familiar shape into his back. “If you’re wondering, this one’s real,” a silky voice promised. “I want you to listen, and listen good. Can you do that?”

John tried to peer at the man from the corner of his eyes, but it was too dark to make out anything unique. Slowly, he nodded.

“Good.” He could hear the greasy smile in the words. “My… boss, shall we say? Has a message for Mr Holmes. _Back. Off._ Simple, I know. But sometimes, simple is better. Now, my boss is _very_ aware that, if they were to give the message to Holmes, their warning would go unheeded. Instead, I’m giving it to you. You love him.”

John inhaled sharply, and the gun pressed harder into the curve of his spine.

“Oh yes. I’m aware of the time you and Mr Holmes spent together before his _accident_. I’ve seen pictures of the two of you cuddling on a picnic blanket. Very romantic. But the bottom line is: I know how you feel about him, how you’d feel if he got hurt. You care about him. You care about his wellbeing. If he gets involved in my boss’s dealings, his wellbeing is going to take a sharp decline. You don’t want this to happen. So, I want _you_ to keep him off my boss’s trail, or else he’ll end up just like that cabbie. I’m a great shot. I don’t miss twice. Understand?”

John nodded, a cold fury burning in his gut. He wanted to bite him, fight him off. He wanted to kill him just for daring to threaten Sherlock.

“Excellent. I’ll be in touch, Watson. Keep your head down ‘til then, all right?” The presence was gone, his back suddenly cold. He turned, trying to find where the mystery voice had disappeared to, but there was nothing. He’d vanished.

John bit his lip, the fight draining slowly from his body. There was nothing he could do, not now, not here. Squaring his shoulders, finding his composure, he marched back towards the lights. Back to Sherlock.


	6. Memories Fading in and Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Consultant consults and finds out what he's forgotten - but it isn't the same as remembering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... how are you?
> 
> I'm get the feeling that this is gonna be a once-a-chapter thing but... I'm really sorry for how late this is. I won't make excuses, especially considering how short it is, but just know that I'm not willfully ignoring this story.

The flat was quiet that night; Sherlock must have been on a post-case adrenaline-high crash. He was curled on the sofa with his back to the world, wearing a dressing gown and pyjamas that were too short in the ankle. He might have been dozing, but John wasn’t sure if the man actually slept. The doctor was washing up his teacup, deep in thought about the warning he’d received. What if Sherlock had gotten close to uncovering this conspiracy – or whatever the hell it was – before? But that was ridiculous. Sherlock wasn’t James Bond. If he’d found something as sinister as this he’d- he’d probably try to solve it himself to prove how smart he was. Dammit. But still… That didn’t necessarily mean that Sherlock had ever known about it before his accident. An accident that had left him unable to recall pretty much anything from several years of his life. Shit. He was starting to talk himself into this lunacy.

“Oh come on, John, don’t be so daft,” he muttered under his breath.

“Don’t be so daft about what?” Sherlock asked.

John jumped forwards in surprise, smacking his head on the cupboard. He grumbled, pressing his hand to his head, and swung round to frown at Sherlock. “When the hell did you get there?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You were thinking.”

“Er. Yes, I do that sometimes,” John replied. “What were _you_ thinking about? You were quiet and... still.”

“I thought another memory had reappeared.”

“But?”

“It was probably just my imagination,” Sherlock said, looking away. “What courses did you take at University?”

John raised an eyebrow. “That’s a random question. Is this related to what you were thinking about?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m curious about you. Besides… people like this sort of thing. Idle conversation. That’s how _normal_ people get to know one another.”

John raised an eyebrow, but ignored the comment. “I took Medicine, obviously, and all the minor courses related to that. I took a Literature class too but I gave it up to go into the army.” John finished the washing and put everything away. “Anything else you wanted to know?”

“How long have we known each other?”

“I think it’s been a week or so since your brother arranged our meeting at the cafe,” John answered carefully. “Why? Are you having trouble-”

“It’s nothing.” Sherlock shook his head, walking away.

John frowned but turned back to the sink, pulling the plug. What was that about? Was Sherlock… remembering? Or maybe he was just imagining things. Why else would Sherlock ask about something like that though? “Get a grip,” he muttered to himself, exiting the kitchen. He passed through the empty living room on the way to his bedroom, and Sherlock’s absence was sorely noticeable. It was almost disturbing how much John missed him, even after a few minutes.

‘ _Why don’t you just tell him? Why are you keeping this from him? Did you change your mind about everything? Or are you just a coward?_ ’ he thought viciously, closing the door to his room. He sat down on the end of his bed, bracing his hands on his knees. ‘ _No. No, that’s not it._ I _haven’t changed my mind… but Sherlock might have. He could have given up, or decided he didn’t want someone as plain and boring as me. What if I told him the truth - that I wanted to be with him - only for him to remember that he didn’t feel the same way._ ’

It was a depressing thought, one he’d been trying to ignore for months, but it was also very likely. He didn’t know what state of mind Sherlock was in at the time of his accident. He didn’t know if Sherlock had found someone else. And then there was the drug issue. At this moment he seemed clean, but how long could that last? If it was a serious addiction (and him being high while on a case made it clear that it was) then Sherlock could easily relapse. Surely, with his memory already a disadvantage, he wouldn’t go back to them. Not on purpose.

John shook his head and got up to get his laptop. He needed to focus on something other than this. He stared at his still empty blog before resolving to post something. He had just had a huge adventure after all, might as well write about it. He could deal with the finer points of addiction and relapse later. He dully registered the doorbell ringing, but ignored it. He didn’t really have the patience for visitors right now.

 

* * *

 

The woman who answered the door smiled at him and greeted him with a warm familiarity. She let him in without a moment’s thought. When she received only a blank stare in return, she frowned. “Has something happened, Sherlock?” Harry asked. “You don’t talk to me at all for months and then you-”

“We know each other?” Sherlock said quickly, stepping inside.

“Uh, yeah, duh. You know, I didn’t think you were one for jokes. It’s a pretty lame one anyway. ‘Do we know each other?’ Pfft.” Harry led him into the lounge room and sat down, waiting for him to respond. As the silence became more pronounced, she grew worried. “Is… is something wrong? I thought, you know, as your future sister-in-law, we might be a little more relaxed with one another, but…”

“Sister-in-law?”

“I _know_ it’s a little early to be throwing around things like that but _c’mon_ , you guys are perfect for each other.” Harry shifted uncomfortably, noticing the way Sherlock was looking around. “You two… you didn’t break up did you?”

Sherlock leaned forward, fixing his full attention on Harry. “When did I first meet your brother?”

“Uh, is this a test?”

“Humour me.”

“Okay… It was, um, I don’t know. I think it was two or three years ago. John was still at Uni, wasting time until he could apply for the military. How did he describe it? ‘He slid into the booth across from me and said I was fascinating’. You sure know how to-”

“So we didn’t meet a few days ago?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

“What? No, why would you- Sherlock? Why are you- What’s going on?” Harry demanded, looking frustrated. “I thought we were friends- well, sort of friends in the you’re-dating-my-brother way. Why did you just stop talking to me? Where have you been? Why are you treating me like I’m some stranger?!”

“I was dating John?”

“Stop it! This isn’t funny! Did you two have a fight or something? John comes home and he _ignores_ me. You stopped talking to me months ago; what the hell? Tell me what’s going on!”

“I wish I knew,” Sherlock told her. “A few months ago, I had an accident. When I woke up in the hospital, I had lost my memory. It’s come back, slowly, but there are large gaps. Before coming here, I thought John was just my flatmate and you were his brother.”

“John said you were flatmates?”

“No. John never mentioned meeting me before last week, much less that we dated.”

“That’s crazy. I saw how John was, talking about you. He was utterly in love with you. Why wouldn’t he say anything?” Harry shook her head, slumping back. “After he left, you told me that he wanted to test how he felt about you. To make sure that he wasn’t just… But he was in love. There was no way he could deny it. I mean, I haven’t seen him lately. And he stopped returning my calls… But he wouldn’t have just given up.”

Sherlock looked her over, taking in the bewilderment Harry was displaying, and frowned. “If he wasn’t interested, it would have been the perfect time to end it. He could have just moved out of my life while I was recovering. But he’s living in a flat with me.”

“This doesn’t make any sense at all. Why would he seek you out, and then pretend not to know you?” Harry muttered.

“He didn’t seek me out. Our meeting was arranged by-” Sherlock shot to his feet, scowling as he realised who was pulling the strings on this particular puppet show. “Mycroft!”

“Your brother? Why would-” Harry snapped her mouth shut as Sherlock raced out. With a sigh, she picked up her phone and started dialling. After hearing ‘This is John Watson, I’m not here right now,’ for the third time, she snapped. “GOD DAMN IT, JOHN. Fine, you can ignore my calls and texts but let’s see if you can ignore THIS.” Throwing on her coat, she strode out into the night and hailed a cab. John wouldn’t know what hit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger, but I felt this was the only way to end the chapter. And now that Sherlock's aware of the things he's forgotten, things might move along a little faster. Sorry if it seems rushed, but I hate to drag things out.


End file.
